Deeper Than That

Living Sculpture · Chapter One · March 2026

What looks like a garden is never just a garden. It is a negotiation — between time and patience, between what was planted by intention and what arrived on the wind.

There is an eighty-year-old brick wall bordering the driveway at this site. For decades it has been clothed in an — Asian Ivy — a non-native groundcover brought to American landscapes for its tidy, persistent green. It does its job beautifully. It is, in the language of horticulture, well-behaved.

Passiflora returning — new growth reaching through the established jasmine.

But well-behaved is not the same as alive. Not in the way an ecosystem is alive — humming, interconnected, feeding the soil and the sky and the creatures that move between them.

A few years ago, the work began to ask more of that wall.

The Problem with Starting Over

The conventional path would have been removal: strip the ivy, expose the bare brick, replant with natives, and endure the years of awkward adolescence while the new plants found their footing. It is a familiar story in ecological gardening, and it is not a wrong one.

The easier answer was removal — but that would mean exposing the bare brick for years, and losing a plant that, whatever its origins, was holding the soil, filtering rain, cooling the brick. There had to be another way in.

So instead of replacing the ivy, the question became: what could grow through it?

Not starting over. Beginning from where things already were.

Passiflora returning — new growth reaching through the established ivy.

The Strategy: Layer Upon Layer

Native ecosystems do not clear-cut and replant. They layer. Succession is slow, relentless, generous — one organism creating conditions for the next. This project works with that logic rather than against it.

Two species of passionvine — Passiflora incarnata and Passiflora foetida — were planted directly into the base of the jasmine. Bee balm and horseherb were added in the pockets of soil at the wall's edge.

The passionvines did something elegant: they used the jasmine as a trellis. They climbed its established woody structure, threading upward without any support to build or maintain. When the vines went dormant over winter, the ivy held the wall — green, living, intact. The non-native became, in its own way, useful.

The characteristic palmate leaves of Passiflora foetida — Stinking Passionflower, unmistakable in early spring.

The Plants and Their Roles

Every species in this layered community was chosen for what it offers — not just visually, but ecologically. These are not ornaments. They are workers.

Passiflora incarnata — Maypop Passionvine
The primary host plant for Gulf Fritillary and Zebra Longwing butterflies. Its elaborate flowers feed Carpenter and Bumble bees and hummingbirds. Edible fruits follow in late summer. Native to the American South.

Passiflora foetida — Stinking Passionflower
Smaller-leaved, delicate, persistent. Also hosts Fritillary butterflies. The "stinking" name belies a subtly fragrant flower; the lacy bracts surrounding its fruit are among the most intricate structures in the plant world.

Monarda spp. — Bee Balm
A pollinator magnet. Bee balm draws native bees, bumblebees, and hummingbirds with tubular flowers rich in nectar. It spreads slowly by rhizome, filling gaps and suppressing less desirable plants over time.

Calyptocarpus vialis — Horseherb / Straggler Daisy
A low, spreading native groundcover with tiny yellow composite flowers. Thrives in shade and partial sun, provides continuous bloom for small native bees, and quietly outcompetes less ecological alternatives over seasons.

Horseherb in flower — what looks modest is quietly essential, blooming for months and feeding the smallest native bees.

What This Wall Is Actually Doing

It would be easy to describe this as a pretty tangle of vines on a driveway wall. But the work happening here is deeper than that.

Plant roots — particularly the deep, fibrous roots of native species — are among the most effective carbon sinks available at the urban scale. They pull atmospheric carbon downward into the soil, where it is stored in complex organic compounds that feed the microbial communities building soil health. Every passionvine root threading deeper beneath this wall is doing that work, quietly, continuously.

The organic matter accumulating at the wall's base slows and filters rainwater, allowing it to percolate rather than run off. In heavy rains, this slowing effect is the difference between absorption and flooding — water held here never reaches the street. In an urban landscape dominated by impervious surfaces, every square foot that absorbs rather than sheds water is returning something to the aquifer.

And the insects. The butterflies and bees that find these plants are not incidental visitors. They are the mechanism by which this small ecosystem connects to the larger web — pollinating, feeding birds, cycling nutrients, signaling the health of a place.

The ivy, by contrast, requires weekly grooming with gas-powered equipment to maintain its tidy appearance. The native community asks for nothing — and gives back everything.

A vine threading through established hedge structure — using what was already there.

Lobed leaves in morning light — the living architecture of succession at work.

Spring, and the Return

The passionvines are coming back now. This is the quiet joy of working with perennials in a mild climate — the return is always a little surprising, always slightly more vigorous than the year before. The roots have had another season to go deeper.

This year the growth will be documented month by month. Not because drama is expected — though there will be butterflies, and that is its own kind of drama — but because the slow accumulation of life is worth witnessing and recording. Because the wall, at eighty years old, is still becoming something.

That is what a living sculpture does. It does not arrive finished. It moves toward something — through seasons, through years, through the patient logic of ecology working at its own pace.

And what it is working toward is deeper than anything that could have been designed.

Deeper Than That is an ongoing monthly document of one urban site's transition into a functioning ecosystem. Each entry follows this living community through the growing season — tracking new growth, insect visitors, seasonal change, and the slow accumulation of ecological complexity that is the true measure of a garden.

THE DAY THE WIND DREW

An Introduction

Some invitations arrive like weather — unexpected, and carrying something with them.

When Holly Josey reached out asking if I would curate her exhibition for FotoFest, I said yes before I fully understood why. That is, I think, the only honest way to say yes. You feel the pull of something before you can name it. You trust the tug.

What I did know was this: my own work has long been in conversation with the natural world. Gust, a body of work I’ve been developing for years, is rooted in wind — in its invisibility, its insistence, the way it shapes everything it touches without ever being seen directly. So when Holly described pens suspended from tree branches, left to draw whatever the wind drew, something in me recognized it immediately. Not as a concept. As a kinship.

We began with a studio visit. She laid out everything — paintings, photographs, the tender evidence of a practice built on deep looking. What unfolded over those hours was something I’ve come to treasure in the work of curating: the slow revelation of an artist’s inner world. Holly’s relationship with the natural world isn’t borrowed or decorative. It is structural. It holds everything up.

Getting to know a new artist who listens this carefully to nature — who is willing to hand the pen to the wind and mean it — lifts something in me. It reminds me why I make work, why I say yes, why paying close attention is never wasted.

Saying yes, I’ve learned, is its own form of letting go.

THE DAY THE WIND DREW

Curator’s Statement

There are two questions underneath all of these works — what does it mean to let go? And what does nature already know? Holly Josey answers these questions with open hands.

Holly Josey’s exhibition The Day the Wind Drew began with a simple act: pens suspended from tree branches, left to move however the wind moved them. Over hours and days, the marks accumulated — not chosen, not corrected, just received. The original work is intimate — 84 inches, on paper — but the wind is not intimate. It is vast, so the wind’s drawing was photographed and printed at monumental scale, filling a 10.5 by 18-foot wall. What remains is a kind of frozen breath, a single moment pulled from an endless series of compositions.

As a curator who works as both an eco-artist and a citizen scientist, I am drawn to what is happening in this work on a deeper level. We are living in a moment when it is dawning on us — slowly, and not without resistance — that the natural world’s intelligence has been unfolding since long before we arrived. The wind has its own logic. The tree has its own memory. Natural systems have been perceiving, connecting, and evolving for far longer than we have. To make art with them, rather than simply from or of them, feels urgent right now. It feels necessary.

It calls to mind something Marcel Duchamp understood a long time ago — that an artist does not have to be the one holding the brush at the final stroke. When his large glass work was damaged in transit, shattering into a web of cracks, Duchamp did not mourn it. He called it finally finished. The accident had completed it. Earlier still, he had let threads fall from a height and fixed their landing exactly as they landed — chance crystallized into form. He was making room for the world to collaborate.

Josey does the same, only her collaborators are alive. The tree. The wind. Time itself. These are not abstractions — they are presences in the room with you as you look. The erratic lines on her paper are evidence of a relationship, a conversation carried on without words between the viewer and the elements. This is what any artist or citizen scientist recognizes: that watching carefully, without forcing a conclusion, is itself a form of knowledge. That the most beautiful things happen at the fringes, in the borders, in the unexpected moments when you let go.

This is what connects everything in this exhibition. Not a style, not a medium, but a willingness to not know exactly what will happen — and to begin anyway. To stay open to risk. To let the work breathe. To learn, as natural systems have always learned, by paying close attention to what the world is already doing.

Cindee Travis Klement

www.cindeeklement.com

From Dusk to Dawn- Four works on paper

I wrote this post in 2025 and forgot to post it. Here it is —

I was contacted to create two small artworks for an older office building in Houston, Texas, that is getting an updated look.

The building is at 3100 Timmons Ln. When I saw the space, I knew right away that it held great storytelling opportunities. I was particularly excited to tell the success story of the Sandhill cranes.

3100 Timmons Lane

Specifically I was tasked with creating new pieces to replace the small decor elements flanking the entrance. However, after considering the entire space, I felt inspired to propose a different approach. The building features a stunning lobby with a grand, five-story ceiling, which presents a wonderful opportunity to enhance the buildings overall design more impactfully.

One of the 7’ X 9’ recessed spaces for artwork.

The lobby.

To fully enhance the impressive ceiling height, the artwork in this space must be substantial and impactful. Smaller pieces will be overlooked in such an expansive setting. I suggested introducing large, vertical artworks that could significantly alter the atmosphere of the room. I suggested that the pieces could effectively integrate the beauty of the outdoors into our indoor spaces. The developer resonated with this concept and proposed that I create designs that span two stories. This collaborative idea presents a fantastic opportunity to elevate the space and reach a new audience for my social practice. A few weeks later, I welcomed him to my studio to share my vision.

My presentation to the developer.

A early sketch

This is the final drawing of the first piece, which beautifully captures a crane landing in a wetland during twilight. The scene reflects the moment when the cranes wait for it to get dark enough that they aren't easily visible. My intention with this artwork is to encourage viewers to look closely and discover the subtle presence of the cranes in their environment.

The next step involved deconstructing the drawing by tearing it into various shapes. After that, I can create a relief by reassembling these shapes on a second sheet of paper..

Then comes the color.

TWILIGHT’S VEIL

7” X 9”4”

watercolor, pastels, ink on collaged Stonehenge paper.

Image by R. Wells

The Tyranny of Tidy

In Defense of the Uninvited — Part II

There is a particular kind of anxiety that lives at the edge of an unmowed lawn. You can feel it from the sidewalk — the low-grade disapproval radiating off a neighbor’s glance, the HOA letter with its careful language about community standards and property values. We all know this pressure. Many of us have bent to it.

I feel it too. At my own eco-art studio, mid-restoration, volunteer plants have started pushing up through the gravel parking lot this spring. In modern aesthetic terms, it looks unkempt. Do I groom the lot because that is what looks cared for to the human eye, or do I do what I preach? First, what I preach is holistic, meaning every situation is different and I have to look at the bigger picture. And if I did want to clean it up — how? I won’t use pesticides. Pulling them is more work than I can manage. I could burn them with a torch, which releases carbon — leaving the lot neat, but barren. I know this option well. It’s what I did all last summer. I feel the pull of that option still. If the entrance looks controlled, does that make visitors more willing to accept the wildness in the garden beyond? That question — how much tidiness do we owe society before we’re allowed to let something live — is exactly what this essay is about.

But where does that feeling actually come from? Why does an unruly patch of goldenrod or a volunteer elderberry pushing up through the fence line produce something closer to alarm than curiosity?

The ancient part of your brain that kept your ancestors alive is genuinely afraid of the tall grass. It is scanning for the snake, the bobcat, the thing with teeth. It wants visibility. It needs control.

That instinct is old. It is wired in. The impulse to clear, to see, to know what’s out there — it kept people alive across tens of thousands of years. We are not wrong to have it.

But we are living in a different world now, and that old circuitry is misfiring. The danger is no longer the rattlesnake in the grass. The danger is the bare ground. The landscape stripped of everything living in the name of control, safety, and the appearance of order.

Consider what that reflex, scaled up across millions of properties and across vast stretches of agricultural land, is actually producing. The fires in Colorado. The fires in California. The flood on the Guadalupe on the Fourth of July. Hurricane Harvey. To name a few. The heat domes that park over cities for days — fed not just by hot pavement and bare urban lots, but by the barren heat radiating off monoculture fields left fallow between seasons. We call these natural disasters — as if nature did this to us, unprovoked.

Extreme weather is increasingly weather that gets stuck. When large amounts of dark surfaces and bare ground absorb and radiate heat, they create heat domes — and the pressure those domes generate is what prevents weather from moving across the landscape. Living plant systems — their moisture, their transpiration, their cooling and breathing — help move weather across the landscape. Strip those systems out and replace them with hot pavement and monoculture lawn, and you remove the very mechanisms that keep weather moving.

What would it take to shift not just individual behavior but the aesthetic itself — to make living, layered, uninvited-welcoming landscapes look like what they actually are: acts of intelligence? Acts of care?

The weeds already know what to do. The seeds are in the soil, waiting. Life is not asking permission. It is ready to come back the moment we stop yanking it out.

The question isn’t whether the land can recover. The question is whether we can — from this idea that control is the same thing as care. That bare is the same thing as clean.

The greatest threat humanity faces isn’t what’s hiding in the weeds.

It’s that we cut them all down.

What a Purple Black-Eyed Susan in Sequel Taught Me About Resilience.

What a Purple Black-Eyed Susan in Sequel Taught Me About Resilience

I was walking through Sequel — my living sculpture — when I noticed it. A cluster of Black-eyed Susans with leaves gone deep, moody purple. My first instinct was something’s wrong. But the more I looked, the more I wanted to understand what was actually happening.

So I went down the rabbit hole.

Turns out, that purple color isn’t a disease. It’s not dying. It’s responding. When a Black-eyed Susan experiences stress — cold nights, too much rain, soil that can’t deliver the phosphorus it needs — it produces something called anthocyanin. A pigment. A protective chemical the plant makes just to cope.

The same pigment that colors blueberries. Red cabbage. Autumn maples.

The plant doesn’t collapse under pressure. It changes color.

I’ve been sitting with that ever since.

So much of what we call “damage” in nature is actually adaptation. The purple leaf isn’t broken — it’s communicating. It’s shifting its internal chemistry in response to its environment, doing what it needs to survive. And the wild thing is, once the soil warms up, once the water drains, once the nutrients find their way through — it can return to green. It was never permanently altered. Just temporarily transformed.

This is exactly why I built Sequel. Not to display nature at its most polished, but to live inside its full cycle — the struggle, the adaptation, the quiet recovery. Sequel keeps showing me things I didn’t plan for, didn’t design, couldn’t have predicted. A purple leaf on an ordinary Tuesday is its own kind of gift.

As an eco-artist, I want my work to carry this story. Not the version of nature that’s always blooming, always golden-hour perfect. But the version that goes purple when it’s cold. That shows the struggle on the outside. That adapts without pretending.

There’s a honesty in that I deeply respect.

If you ever spot a Black-eyed Susan going purple, give it a moment before you panic. Check the drainage. Watch the temperature. Maybe add a little bone meal if the soil’s been wet and cold. But also — just notice it. Let it remind you that stress responses aren’t failures. Sometimes they’re exactly what survival looks like.

Sequel keeps teaching me that. One plant at a time.

— 🌿

In Defense of the Uninvited

I think about weeds.

Not in an anxious, what-do-I-do-about-them way. More in a — wait, who decided these don’t belong here? — kind of way.

I look at these plants. Really look at them. They showed up, figured it out, and started doing the work. Nobody planted them. Nobody watered them. They just arrived, broke through whatever burning hot surface was available, and got on with it. You have to admire their spirit and determination.

We call them invasive. We call them a problem. And sometimes, they are. I am a die hard native plant enthusiast — however I have been uncomfortable with this reflex to yank out anything that wasn’t there before — particularly in cities, especially on abandoned lots and cracked pavement and post-industrial nowhere — as if those places had some pristine original state worth protecting.

They don’t. And these plants seem to know it.

Here’s what I’ve come to believe: weeds are Earth’s first responders. When the ground is left bare, tilled, stripped, burned, flooded, or just forgotten — Mother Earth sends them in. They are biologically programmed for the site’s specific conditions, temperature, moisture, daylight — speed healers. They lower soil temperatures, protect the earth’s surface, feed what lives below ground, slow rainwater, reduce erosion, sequester carbon. They show up precisely when and where they are needed most. They do not waste energy or resources.

Here’s what I’ve also noticed: the spots where something is growing — even the stuff we’re not supposed to want — are almost always healthier than the spots where we’ve cleared everything out in the name of keeping it native or neatly manicured. Bare ground isn’t neutral. It’s just… empty. It’s dead. And dead empty doesn’t really serve life.

So I’ve changed how I work. When a volunteer appears somewhere I wasn’t expecting it, I no longer yank it out in a knee-jerk response. I stop — look — think. Why was it sent in? What is it doing? Is it holding soil? Feeding something? Offering shade, cover, a landing pad? I weigh what it’s providing before I decide what to do about it.

The real question isn’t where did this come from? It’s what is it doing now that it’s here?

I’m not saying throw out the whole idea of caring about native ecosystems. I am still a die hard native plant enthusiast. I’m saying the city lot behind a parking garage is probably not the hill to die on. And the plants that moved in there — the ones in these photos — they’re working with what exists, not what existed.

There’s something I respect about that.

Just maybe they know what they are doing.

Take daisy fleabane. Erigeron annuus. Dainty and a little scraggly when alone but stunning in a bunch, shows up in places nobody planted anything intentionally. Easy to walk past. Easy to dismiss.

Here is what it’s actually doing.

It’s a pioneer species — which means it arrives first, on bare and broken ground, before almost anything else is willing to try. Disturbed soil, compacted soil, the forgotten strip between a parking lot and a fence. Fleabane doesn’t care. It moves in, stabilizes the surface, and starts feeding things. Bees, wasps, flies, small butterflies. The Lynx Flower Moth uses it as a host plant. Goldfinches pick through the seeds come fall like they’ve been waiting all season.

Nobody sent it an invitation. It just knew where it was needed.

That’s the plant in this photo. Doing exactly what I described. Showing up, figuring it out, getting on with it.

Easy to pull. I say — easy to love.

Rooted in the Shallows

PONTEDERIA CORDATA  ·  AN OBSESSION

I have fallen completely under the spell of pickerelweed.

Pontederia cordata — the name alone sounds like a spell. It rises from muddy shallows and still backwaters, its glossy, heart-shaped leaves catching light like polished jade, its violet-blue flower spikes reaching upward through summer and into fall with an unhurried, unshakeable confidence. It does not fight the current. It simply rises.

"This is what hope looks like in plant form — rooted in muck, growing toward light, feeding everything around it."

Working on Unfolding Hope, I kept returning to this plant: the way its rhizomes thread quietly through sediment, the way whole colonies emerge from a single unseen root network, the way it stabilizes shorelines without fanfare. In these details I found my visual language — drips like rhizomes reaching, pooling violet forms like flower heads heavy with rain, cracked gold lines tracing the veins beneath a leaf.

Pollinators adore it. Ducks eat its seeds. Its stalks are edible. It provides, constantly and abundantly, and then it spreads — slowly, inevitably — into something monumental. A colony becomes a landscape. A margin becomes a meadow.

These close-up images are fragments of the larger relief: moments where the violet breaks through the green, where something tender survives at the edge of the water. Each one is a small act of unfolding.

The Same Root

Last weekend I attended De-documenting, an exhibition by artist Beatriz Bellorin at Box 13 — a body of work exploring immigration law and process that stayed with me long after I left. The work is timely in the obvious ways. But it surfaced something I didn’t expect: a connection I’ve been trying to articulate for some time, between how we relate to land and how we relate to one another.

That thread runs through a work-in-progress—my manifesto. What follows is one part of it.

The Same Root

There is a connection between how we treat land and how we treat each other that is not metaphorical. It is psychological. It is moral.

The impulse that produces the sterile lawn — the need for control, for legibility, for the elimination of what does not belong — is the same impulse that produces exclusionary politics, that walls off complexity, that treats diversity as threat rather than abundance.

Someone who has learned to build a living ecosystem understands viscerally that diversity is resilience. That the system is stronger for its complexity, not despite it. That what looks like chaos is intricate interdependence. That the thing you might want to remove is probably doing something essential you have not yet understood.

This is not a metaphor for immigration policy. It is the same cognitive and moral framework — the same quality of perception — applied to human communities.

Learning to tend a living garden does not automatically make someone a more compassionate citizen. But it trains the eye and the mind and perhaps the heart in ways that make compassion more available. It builds the capacity to sit with complexity without resolving it into something simpler and cleaner and less true.

Life Pouring Itself Into New Vessels,

This morning, dew-dipped feathers told a story older than grief. A cardinal neighbor who brightened my studio garden, a living work of art, had become sustenance—scattered crimson testament to a hawk’s hunger. I imagine four small lives depended on that transformation.

We call it loss, but energy never disappears. It shifts, transfers, animates new flight. The cardinal’s vibrant existence continues in powerful wings cutting through sky, in fledglings learning to hunt, and in the garden’s soil receiving what remains.

What seems like an ending is really regeneration, a beginning—life pouring itself into new vessels, forever becoming. The same brilliance that caught sunlight on red feathers now fuels another family’s survival. Nothing beautiful is ever truly gone.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Listening to the landscape.

Listening to the land or reading the land is a profound concept, rooted in the belief that nature communicates through signs and signals, much like a silent language. As a research based artist, I am inspired by the ecological lectures, where speakers often urge us to observe and understand what the land’s ecological role is in a given ecosystem, instead of what we would like it to be. This idea may initially seem unconventional, but it becomes clearer when you consider that Earth conveys messages through its responces to human interference with flora, fauna and weather.

In my experiences, I spend considerable time immersed in various landscapes, keenly observing and listening to what the land needs to thrive. One such experience was in “Sequel,” where I was attuned to the environment through the presence of a songbird, the buzzing of a bee, and the dancing of a butterfly, which all narrated the story of a living ecosystem. It was here that I encountered Sida rhombifolia, or arrowleaf sida. This plant, through its silent discourse, revealed much about the health and needs of the land.

Sida rhombifolia, though sometimes viewed as invasive, plays a significant role in ecological wellbeing. Its nature as invasive tells me the land needs plants that compete for light and maximize the Earth’s surface for photosynthesis. First, it serves as a vital nectar source for bees and butterflies, crucial pollinators that sustain plant diversity and ecosystem health. Second, its robust root system acts as an anchor, stabilizing soil and preventing erosion, especially in disturbed areas. Third, the plant's ability to thrive in arid conditions makes it a valuable component in water-limited environments, showcasing its drought tolerance. Lastly, while not a staple for all herbivores, it can provide forage in ecosystems where food sources may be scarce.

The interplay between flora such as Sida rhombifolia and the broader ecosystem illustrates how plants can indicate the needs of the land. By "listening" to such signs — be it through the plants, the sounds of insects, or the sway of grasses — we can better understand and respond to these needs, leading to healthier landscapes.

My personal journey in listening to the land is one I hope to share widely, with the aim of inspiring others to cultivate a deeper connection with nature. The target audience includes individuals interested in ecology, sustainability, and anyone eager to understand their environment more intimately. Through this awareness, I hope to foster a sense of responsibility and action — a call to observe, learn, and ultimately, coexist in harmony with the natural world. Recognizing that the Earth speaks to us, not through words, but through the rich tapestry of its living ecosystems, empowers us to be stewards of the land, ensuring its health and vitality for future generations.

Passionate for Pre-K

This post will serve as a journal for the work.

 “My four-year-old daughter saw her first butterfly and was terrified." – Lawndale Art Center patron, 2022.

This remark, shared during one of my Symbiosis artist talks at the Lawndale Art Center, sparked Passionate for Pre–K. Imagining a generation untouched by the gentleness and fragility of wings—this is a sorrow too heavy to bear—and do nothing.

Wildlife plays a vital role in early childhood brain development.  At the very least, let each school day begin with a procession past living poetry: vines sculpted in fragrant blossoms of lemon honey, trembling with the promise of caterpillars, alive with the fragile ballet of butterflies. Each child develops in the company of nature’s intelligence.

With small acts of passion, this is within reach.

DESCRIPTION

Passionate for Pre–K is a living social sculpture installed in the fall of 2025 on the chain-link fences surrounding the playground at Clemente Martinez Elementary School in Houston, Texas. I sourced 90ish Texas native vines from my three living sculptures: Symbiosis at the Lawndale Art Center, Deeper Than That at a private residence, and Sequel, located next to my art studio in Acres Homes. Passion vines are highlighted in the mix. Sourcing from multiple locations supports the DNA diversity of the ecosystem. Hope Stone and landscape architect Caroline Craddock are coordinating this installation with the school administration.

THE PROCESS

Taking tender 10-inch vine cuttings, using root stimulator and native leaf mold to propagate the plants. I am selecting 90 plants of different species to support a variety of wildlife and accommodate different growing seasons. The school community assisted with the planting in early October.

LONG-TERM GOAL

As ecological knowledge from Symbiosis has taken root in Deeper Than That, which has grown into Sequel, the hope is that Passionate for Pre-K will act as a catalyst. Annually, new tendrils—carefully propagated—will be gifted from Clemente Martinez Elementary School to neighboring schools, allowing the spirit of regeneration to spread from playground to playground, blossoming into a living legacy of wonder and natural intelligence.

PLANT LIST

May pop, Passiflora Incarnata

Stinking Passion vine  Passiflora foetida 

Various proven Passion vine hybrids.

Trumpet honeysuckle,  Lonicera sempervirens

Hairy clustervine, Jacquemontia tamnifolia

Muscadine grape, Vitis rotundifolia

American wisteria, Wisteria frutescens

Crossvine, Bignonia capreolata

Carolina jessamine, Gelsemium sempervirens

COLLABORATION

Passionate for Pre-K is a collaboration with Hope Stone, Caroline Craddock and the Clemente Martinez Elementary School community.

I am extremely thankful for this opportunity, which wouldn't exist without Hope Stone, Caroline Craddock and the incredible volunteers.

NOVEMBER 2025 UPDATE

During phase two of Passionate for Pre-K, a fifth-grade class carefully planted the remaining plants for the installation. The following week, the eager students returned to check on their plantings, only to find a scene of destruction. Unfortunately, a child left unattended in the play area pulled up several plants, leaving only 7 of the original 90 still alive. This act of vandalism is heartbreaking and frustrating, but it highlights how important this project is. The lessons a garden can teach about social responsibility, care, and wonder are fundamental. I will not let one act derail the project. Every child has the right to be inspired by nature. I am propagating new cuttings in preparation for planting again in the spring.

—special thanks to Caroline Craddick for capturing these moments in photos.

One of the plants from the previous planting that was part of the vandalism. Notice the gulf Fritillary butterfly hiding in the shadow.

propagating a passion vine in water.

The Stinky Passion flower’s scientific name is Passiflora foetida. It is also known as Fetid Passion Flower, Love-in-a-mist, Wild Maracuja, and running pop.

It has sticky, feathery, leafy bracts that surround the flower and fruit. When an insect tries to eat the fruit, it gets caught in the sticky bracts and dies. The plant then secretes a digestive enzyme and absorbs the nutrients.

Generational Amnesia- Saving Humming birds

The truth about saving Hummingbirds

Hummingbird feeders are for human interaction. Hummingbirds do not need feeders or sugar water; they obtain their energy from native insects found on native plants.

Each baby hummingbird needs 9,000 insects over three weeks when they fledge. Typical nests have two eggs, and most birds lay twice a season. That means each mother for her babies needs 36000 insects. Plant a or an tree for insects. In addition they also need soft organic materials to build their nests such as spider webs and dandelions. Please let leave them for the hummingbirds.

Nature Nurtures: Nurture Nature

Sequel, 65oo sq. ft living sculpture, Summer Solstice 2024, Image by Jake Eshelman

image by Wolf Mac Lean

image by Jake Eshelman

Generational Amnesia and Water given the 7/4/2025 floods

Water is composed of a multitude of living organisms, each a microscopic being. Having spent most of my life in the vast desert of West Texas, I've always yearned for a connection with water and the beauty of plant life. Water gardening and underwater videoing have become my pastimes, offering pleasure, creativity, peace, and calm. I spent hours in our pond during covid.

However, I am concerned for our young humans as they navigate an environment increasingly marked by extreme weather patterns. I worry that they will grow to fear water, especially in the wake of violent floods that seem to be happening more frequently.

When reflecting on our relationship with water, it's hard not to see how humanity's approach has been somewhat harsh. I initially wrote violent, but AI suggested I use the word harsh, so I toned it down.

We often treat this vital resource as something to be controlled, redirecting it into linear channels and concrete ditches or trapping it in reservoirs and basins filled with chemical inputs. With hindsight how will future generations describe our treatment of water, our relationship with water? Thinking about it tears me up.

This treatment raises questions for me:

Are these extreme weather events, these overwhelming floods, a response to our attempts to dominate and contain water rather than nurture a natural flow? I believe it is.

Perhaps if we can rebuild our connection with water and all the microorganisms that make it up—by rebuilding landscapes that promote it to move slowly and freely, spread out, and soak into the earth-we might mitigate these violent, I mean, harsh events. Would fostering this gentler relationship with water lead to a more harmonious existence for us and water's living beings?

Lastly, I believe it’s important to recognize the value of our relationship with water, as it plays a crucial role in cooling the planet. In fact, about 90% of the planet's cooling comes from water. By fostering a deeper connection to this essential resource, we can better appreciate its impact and work towards preserving it for future generations and our own.

Re-greening a Dryland Watershed

https://www.usgs.gov/media/videos/re-greening-dryland-watershed

Generational Amnesia and Regeneration.

The phrase “generational amnesia” has lingered restlessly in my mind for months, recently taking flight from unexpected hands.

This phenomenon, also known as shifting baseline syndrome, describes how each generation views the environment they inherit as the normal standard, even if it is significantly more degraded than that of previous generations.

The natural history stories of our times are primarily those reported on news shows. These programs often focus on crises and dramatic events, daily fire reports, flooding, and other extreme weather events, leading to a prevailing sense that our environmental challenges are insurmountable. Although these weather disasters were extremely rare during my youth, for today's children, they are the norm.

As an eco-artist, I focus on how knowledge, traditions, and values are transmitted from one generation to the next. In historical cultures, this was often done in beautiful and poetic ways. However, I believe contemporary culture has experienced a significant disconnect—a kind of amnesia regarding the workings of the natural world.

Art is the poetry that links the rhythm of the human heart to that of the hummingbirds.

Understanding natural history and effective social change is crucial for caring for the natural world and motivating others to participate in the movement.

Our storytelling is evolving compared to past civilizations. My husband, Curtis, and I took part in a hummingbird tagging event in Christoval, Texas, where we witnessed a compelling example of modern knowledge sharing. During these tagging events, biologists carefully capture tiny hummingbirds to collect vital information, including their sex, age, length, and weight.

After gathering this crucial data, a skilled volunteer carefully cradles each delicate bird in the palm of an observer's hand. The tiny creature briefly pauses, and you hold your breath, feeling an almost mechanical vibration, like a toy stuck in the "on" position — the rhythm of its heartbeat. Then, in an instant, it is back into the wild.

This moment—the exchange of a tiny life from seasoned hands to smooth palms—struck me as a living metaphor for what it means to nurture the passing of knowledge and care across generations. It is the story of regeneration.

The hummingbird’s pause is fleeting yet profound. It is a gesture of trust, vulnerability, and hope. It is a whisper from one generation to another, reminding us that our stewardship of the planet depends on this transfer: of respect, wisdom, and wonder.

In the 1980s in Houston, our garden was filled with hummingbirds, and their vibrant presence greatly influenced our outlook on life and our conversations often landed on their sightings. They were a part of our everyday life. I remember them when Curtis proposed, they were part of our love story. We miss them.

Our understanding of nature, our sense of responsibility, and the stories we inherit fade like a photograph left too long in the sun. This collective forgetting—the amnesia—puts not only cultural memory but also the very health of our environment at risk.

The hummingbird photos reminded me that breaking this cycle requires hands willing to reach out and moments prepared to receive. It demands nurturing curiosity, empathy, and attention in children and adults alike. It calls for the deliberate passing on of more than just facts, but also the emotions and experiences that bind us to the world beyond ourselves — beyond the 24-hour weather report.

Let us listen closely to that soft flutter of wings and rewild the wisdom of regeneration.

The truth about saving Hummingbirds

Hummingbird feeders are for human interaction. Hummingbirds do not need feeders or sugar water; they obtain their energy from native insects found on native plants.

Each baby hummingbird needs 9,000 insects over three weeks when they fledge. Typical nests have two eggs, and most birds lay twice a season. That means each mother for her babies needs 36000 insects. They also need soft organic materials to build their nests such as spider webs and dandelions. Please let leave them for the hummingbirds.

The weight of truth

The concept of the “weight of truth” emphasizes the essential role honesty plays in our society and the significant pressures that accompany it. This raises an important question: when does the acknowledgment of new scientific discoveries and truths, particularly those overlooked by community leaders, become an ethical or even a justice issue?

In the fields of soil science and environmental studies, we are witnessing the alarming effects of extreme weather patterns, land subsidence, and the loss of biodiversity. Urban policies shaped by city councils, homeowners associations, and societal norms often worsen these challenges. The focus has shifted from environmentally harmful practices, such as maintaining monocultures of non-native grasses using gas-powered tools—which contribute to air and water pollution and the use of toxic chemicals—to a more regenerative approach.

These decisions not only have profound implications for our health, particularly for children who are at an increased risk for cancer, but they also endanger the fragile wildlife biodiversity that is crucial for the planet’s well-being.

Once again, I ask: when does the recognition of new ecological truths begin to outweigh the legacy of colonial landscapes? It is time that our leaders and institutions bear the weight of truth. Let’s encourage and support them. I'm thinking about the situation in Houston, where our waters drain into the Gulf of Mexico. Homeowners are required to OBTAIN A PERMIT to AVOID using cancer-causing chemicals, and reducing lawn mowing which significantly decrease emissions—up to eleven times more than those produced by a new car. This approach supports biodiversity, helps maintain the water table, and prevents land subsidence. Shouldn’t homeowners who want to use chemicals to maintain their perfect lawns and gas-emitting machinery be required to have a permit?

Nut grass in Sequel

Transforming a turf grass landscape into a thriving ecosystem is a rewarding journey that requires time and patience. I'm using a gradual approach with limited resources and have made progress by installing various plants, adding fallen leaves, and incorporating leaf mold compost. However, many areas remain bare, and the compacted clay soil presents challenges.

I discovered a non-native nut grass while planting White-veined Dutchman’s pipevine. Initially dismissed as a weed, I chose to explore the potential benefits of this volunteer plant. Nut grass has an extensive root network that enhances soil quality and prevents erosion. Its antioxidative properties protect surrounding plants and soils, and its salinity tolerance helps maintain ecological balance.

I will embrace nut grass for its role in protecting the soil, retaining water, and supporting the Dutchman’s pipevine, the host plant for the blue swallowtail.

Partridge pea spoke to me.

Today I find myself deeply reflecting on the intricate relationship between humans and the natural world, especially as it unfolds in the small but vibrant patches of my living Sculpture Sequel. The idea of "listening to the land" resonates strongly with me, even if it initially sounds a bit abstract or sentimental. Spending time observing and contemplating how civilization can live in harmony with nature has taught me that the Earth, whether you call it landscape, Mother nature, or something else, is constantly communicating in subtle, layered ways. One form of communication it uses is relayed through plants.

A perfect example of this dialogue is the Partridge pea, a slinder but sturdy, unassuming plant that has volunteered in masses in the dappled shade of my living sculpture Sequel. This plant doesn’t just survive; it volunteers enthusiastically in disturbed spaces—roadsides, open fields, and now Sequel—acting as a pioneer species that signifies restoration and new beginnings. As a legume, the Partridge pea is remarkable in its ability to fix atmospheric nitrogen, quietly enriching the soil and supporting the growth of other plants nearby. Its roots hold the earth together, reducing erosion, while its bright yellow flowers serve as a beacon to pollinators like bees and butterflies, helping sustain the biodiversity that I strive to nurture here.

What I find most fascinating is the plant’s extrafloral nectaries, tiny glands on its leaf petioles that secrete nectar, attracting ants and predatory insects. These guardians of the partridge pea defend it from herbivores in a mutualistic dance, illustrating nature’s complex survival strategies. This sophisticated defense mechanism speaks volumes about the interconnectedness of life and reminds me why my living sculpture work goes beyond simple aesthetics or landscape design.

While I haven’t fully articulated all the regenerative and eco-friendly practices I employ yet, this relationship with pioneer species like Partridge pea is part of a larger ethos. It’s about allowing nature to guide, to heal, and to thrive alongside human creativity. My ecological recovery work in urban landscapes is a living experiment in regeneration and respect. Each plant selected or welcomed seeks to contribute to soil health, habitat stabilization, and supporting local wildlife, integrating seamlessly into the ecosystem rather than imposing upon it.

The inspiration to create living sculptures sprung from a desire to find a balance where humanity and the natural world can coexist, where art and ecology meet—where creative expression becomes a form of environmental stewardship.

Watching the Sequel evolve over time has been enlightening. I have witnessed how initially sparse or disturbed areas are beginning spring forth life—the soil stabilizes, pollinators return, and some day small mammals and amphibians will find shelter. It is a quiet transformation that feels both hopeful, necessary and a little desperate.

Integrating art into ecological restoration has not been without its challenges. Balancing the needs of living, growing plants with the permanence and intent of conceptual art and art objects forces me to think fluidly and adaptively. I overcome these difficulties by embracing impermanence and change as part of the creative process, letting the natural systems shape the art as much as the art shapes the garden.

My living sculpture/ecological restoration art is a reflection of my deep connection to environmental themes, symbolizing regeneration, mutual aid, and the cycles of decay and renewal. When visitors or readers experience this space, I hope they feel a sense of curiosity, respect, and maybe even a call to pay closer attention to the land around them. There have been moments when watching a group of ants patrol the partridge pea leaves or a flutter of butterflies on bright yellow flowers filled me with quiet awe and reaffirmed the importance of this work.

Maintaining the garden requires ongoing observation, gentle intervention, and a commitment to letting nature lead whenever possible. It is a practice of patience and listening, blending artistic intention with ecological reality to ensure the space remains vibrant and meaningful.

There is so much more to explore and discover in this continually evolving relationship between art, nature, and human care. For now, I am grateful for the lessons the land and plants like the Partridge pea offer—for their stories, resilience, and the quiet conversations they open up if only we listen.

Sequel: embracing urban rewilding and humming birds

30” X 44” watercolor monotype.

Exploring the beauty and artistry of urban rewilding is a central theme in my current living sculpture installation, Sequel. A key design element of Sequel is the mutual respect and reciprocity that value nature and all its inhabitants.

True beauty is derived from a respect for the environment and an understanding that humans are part of a larger, interconnected web of life which is not determined by the manicured and organized plantings on the site.

Part of my daily art practices is noticing the small changes as the seasons unfold. As volunteer plants rise above the ground I don’t reach for a herbicide I research the plant through multiple sources. Then I search for how the plant supports the Gulf Coast Ecosystem and the needs of permanent and migrating wildlife.

With longer days we humans are starting to clean up our outdoor spaces. By traditional values an unsightly spider web on the wall would be swept away. Dandelions and other tall skinny volunteer plants would be poisoned providing neatly groomed manicured lawns.

In Sequel I consider the longer days of spring summon the migrating humming birds and they too have needs that might surprise you. Over the years through research I've discovered that these tiny avian wonders greatly benefit from less manicured environments within our cities. Unfortunately, hummingbirds, which typically grace our urban areas from mid-March to mid-May, are on the decline. However, by allowing our urban landscapes to remain a bit "messy" and imperfect, we can support their numbers.
The benefits hummingbirds gain from such environments are substantial. As they prepare for nesting, they require unique materials for constructing their nests—materials often found only in less controlled, more natural settings. I find it fascinating how hummingbirds gather spider silk, dandelion puffs, thistle down, lichens, and moss. These elements help them create nests that are functional and aesthetically exemplify nature's perfect balance. These materials provide the necessary strength and structure for nest building, a critical aspect of their survival.

I believe buzzing hummingbirds swooping in and out of Sequel would be an incredibly beautiful addition to the installation. To support hummingbirds I've come to realize there are several practical actions we can all take as urban residents:

1. Allow dandelions and thistles to grow naturally. By avoiding mowing or spraying herbicides on them, we're providing the soft materials hummingbirds need for their nests.

2. Resist the urge to sweep away spider webs. Instead, let's recognize these webs as vital resources for nest building.

3. Appreciate the natural beauty of lichens and mossesand air pkants. Removing them disrupts their essential role in the ecological landscape that hummingbirds depend on.

My journey as an eco-artist has deepened my personal connection to hummingbirds, revealing how these incredible creatures can add magic to our backyards, fostering a sense of wonder and connection to the natural world. By recognizing and valuing seemingly minor aspects of urban nature—like dandelions, spider webs, lichens, and moss—we can significantly contribute to the survival and flourishing of hummingbirds. This approach not only aids these delicate creatures but also highlights the intricate balance and resilience inherent in nature.

In balancing the aesthetics of urban landscapes with the ecological needs of hummingbirds, I envision cities that embrace natural elements rather than suppress them. This perspective encourages a harmonious coexistence between urban development and the ecological needs of wildlife, creating urban environments that are not only visually appealing but also ecologically supportive. The presence of hummingbirds in such settings becomes a testament to nature's resilience and the potential for urban spaces to contribute positively to biodiversity

La Mancha's Sequel: A Mindful, Climate-Smart Urban Landscape. Redseed Plantains

January 16, 2025
Yesterday, It was raining, and Sequel was quiet and soaking in delightly rainwater. It was a great time to look closely; I was struck by the vibrant community of Redseed plantains flourishing beneath the canopy of trees. Under trees is usually an area where plants struggle to find their footing. However, This Redseed, who I am more familiar with amidst neglected landscapes and cracked sidewalks, bursts with life around these trees. It's as though the earth itself has decided to paint a masterpiece of resilience and beauty with these tiny, tenacious greens. The sight is a comfort, a reminder of nature's ability to reclaim and regenerate.

Here it is in early January. We have had one cold spell and expect another next week. The plantain leaves measure four inches tall; their bright green broad leaves blanket the area like you might expect in the spring. They mimic a verdant duvet that, for now, remains unassuming but undeniably beautiful.

To an unsuspecting eye, these plants may seem inconsequential. Yet, with a bit of research, I've discovered their incredible significance. They are the unsung heroes, supporting a diverse array of wildlife. The Redseed plantain is more than just foliage; it offers sustenance to bobwhite quail, Rio Grande wild turkeys, white-tailed deer, cattle, and the Texas tortoise. The seeds serve as nourishment for game birds like scaled quail, bobwhite quail, and mourning doves. These plants are also invaluable to insects, providing habitat and sustenance to many, including the stunning Buckeye butterflies that graced this space on January 3rd.

This living tapestry serves another crucial purpose in the conservation of our environment. Redseed plantain is a remarkable ally in our efforts to combat erosion. Its fibrous roots delve deep into the earth, breaking through compacted soil, stabilizing it, and helping to restore its vitality. This is nature’s foundation: a grassroots effort exemplified by these short tap roots, acting as first responders in reviving hardened ground.

The site I am cultivating, La Mancha's Sequel: A Mindful, Climate-Smart Urban Landscape, is meant to be a testament to our potential for harmonious coexistence with nature. The project spans 7,500 square feet, a social sculpture intended to demonstrate how thoughtful decisionsn making interwoven with nature can create regenerative environments. As I chronicle the daily developments here, each entry becomes a dialogue between myself and the land, a continuous exchange that shapes both the space and my understanding of it.

Observing the Redseed plantains, thriving against the odds, I am filled with a deep sense of reverence and wonder. They remind me that even the most unassuming forces can make a profound impact. In this interplay of plant and purpose, I find inspiration for what La Mancha's Sequel can become—a living sculpture that speaks to the possibilities of urban landscapes, rich with life, responsive to climate, a mindful corner of the world where nature and humanity flourish side by side.

Pink spotted Hawkmoth cacoon overwintering in the roots.

Redseed roots with a sprig of horseherb and the cacoon.